Happy Muses
"Look at the Muses," said Rosemary, after a silence. "Do you think they've gone to sleep?"
The nine slender birches, that had apparently paused in their flight down the hillside, were, indeed, very still. Not a twig stirred, and the white trunks were ghostly in the twilight. Seemingly they leaned toward each other for protection and support; for comfort in the loneliness of the night.
"Happy Muses," he responded. "No vineyard to look after and no school to teach."
"And no Grandmother," continued Rosemary, "and no Aunt. Nor any dishes or brooms or scrubbing-brushes, or stoves that are possessed by evil spirits."
Star-like, a single light appeared in the front window of the big white house on the shore of the river. It was answered almost immediately by another, far across the stream.
"I like to watch the lights," the girl went on. "The first one is always in your house."
"Yes, I know. Mother dislikes twilight."
"Ours is the last--on account of the price of oil."
"Here," he said. "I almost forgot your book. And I brought you two candles this time. You mustn't read by the light of one--you'll spoil your eyes."
Saying Good-Night
"Oh, Mr. Marsh! Thank you so much!"
"You're very welcome, Miss Starr."
"Please don't. I like to have you call me Rosemary."
"Then you must call me Alden. I've been telling you that for almost two years."
"I know, but I can't make myself say it, somehow. You're so much older and wiser than I."
"Don't be vain of your youth. I'm only five years ahead of you, and, as for wisdom, anybody could teach a country school in Winter and grow grapes the rest of the time."
"I'm not so sure of that. Come, it's getting late."
They went down the hill together, hand in hand like two children. The young man's mood had changed for the better and he was whistling cheerfully. They stopped at the corner where she must turn to go home.
"Good-night," she said.
"Good-night, Rosemary. I wish I could come to see you sometimes."
"So do I, but it's better that you shouldn't."
"I don't see why you can't come over in the evenings occasionally. I always read to Mother and you might as well listen, too. I'd gladly take you home."
"It would be lovely," she sighed, "but I can't."